


Heart of Darkness

by FakeCirilla9



Series: Fallen series [1]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Akallabêth, Canon Compliant, F/M, Forced Marriage, Misogyny, Racism, Second Age, Victim Blaming, way too much Heart of Darkness references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-29
Updated: 2019-08-29
Packaged: 2020-09-29 21:21:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20442722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FakeCirilla9/pseuds/FakeCirilla9
Summary: A story in which Ar-Pharazôn takes a bit too much (power and other things) for himself.





	Heart of Darkness

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Barren](https://archiveofourown.org/works/869583) by [jubah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jubah/pseuds/jubah). 

> I wanted to write Ar-Pharazôn appreciation fic. But he is such an asshole

The breaking waves glistened white across the sea surface around and so shone endings of spears, as men returned home after their long voyage. They landed ashore, came dripping gold, herding slaves and carrying riches. Crowds of kinsmen gathered to meet them.

One man stood out among the seamen: tall, dark and commanding. His robes glimmered gold, challenging the sun in brightness. His proud gait demanded respect and he was obeyed not only because he was a nephew of the King, but due to his natural charisma.

Everyone admired him, Míriel including.

Later she often asked herself whether if she acted differently upon that day her life would take another direction. Maybe if she did not smile so brightly at her cousin long not seen. Maybe if she didn't kiss him on the cheek, embracing him in the sight of so many...

* * *

There was a feast and everyone partied. Exotic performers danced. Tables bent under sumptuous food. Yet still all eyes, like in the port, were turned at the hero of the day. Everyone was curious of the stories he had to tell just as they were fond of the gold he always brought them from his journeys. And he gloated at their admiration and their curiosity was happily obliged. He smiled and clapped shoulders, and exchanged trivialities.

Tar-Míriel sat at the head of the table, next to an empty seat her father the King shall occupy. The King was growing weary, old, almost sick. It was as if the death of his brother, opponent and yet the closest (beside her) relative was the last straw that bent him under the weight of years. He rarely entertained public events anymore, ceding the factual power to her. He withered in his chamber, looking toward the West, looking into a seeing stone and losing hope the Valar will ever answer his prayers. No eagle came. No ship from Tol Eressëa docked in their havens. And now not the white boats of the elves, but black as night vessels of Ar-Pharazôn’s fleet littered the port.

Míriel did not oppose, when her victorious cousin came to sit next to her, taking the seat that rightfully belonged to the King. The rest of the night she spent immersed into his voice deep as the sea, listening in wonder the stories of distant lands: of areas, where gold fills the rivers; where birds are of many colours and even men differ in skin shades like they differed in hair colour in Númenor.

She asked him if he saw the place where the sun raises. He did. Yet he would like to see the one where sun drowns under the horizon after it regular sail each day and his life would be complete in that aspect then.

She laughed and called it blasphemy, to which he made no answer.

There was wine and other concoctions from countries they had visited. Ar-Pharazôn drunk and looked upon his beautiful cousin. Her eyes shone like stars, her hair was black as maw of the ocean. There was a flush on her fair face as she listened to him eagerly.

The denser darkness of the night fell on the world outside, the more he convinced himself she was teasing him on purpose, deliberately overstepping lines between relatives. And why shouldn’t he answer her blatant provocation?

He wasn’t accustomed to denial. It was near impossible to refuse himself anything after interacting with wild men that saw him as a god. 

There were tribes of which men were marrying their own sisters, there were regions where a man could have many wives.

And they took slaves. Natives handed them pretty girls as a due tribute. At this point he nearly forgot he should ask for consent.

He wanted something, he took it. He wanted a woman, he took her.

And Míriel was much more beautiful to his eyes than any of the Middle Earth midgets. She was tall and proud, a true daughter of Númenor, a reflection of himself. Not seeing her for so long enhanced her beauty even more and made her enough distant he could almost not think of her as of family.

That night he paid her a visit.

* * *

He married her shortly after her father had died.

He owed it to her because he took her virtue. That way she could retain her honor and he could gain the crown. It was advantageous to both and had many other benefits too. In time he convinced himself entirely it was the right thing to do.

Yet Míriel’s eyes did not twinkle with joy like they did the day she greeted him at the shore. Her laughter did not sweeten the air at the day of their wedding.

Ar-Pharazôn thought his cousin ungrateful. He could just rape her, leave her after he'd taken her virginity to live the rest of her life in disgrace - she'd be no threat to his policies. But no, he had made her a Queen.

He could have killed her just as easily. Not openly, of course, that would make him too unpopular - but by assassination. People would murmur, a few more bodies of the loudest protesters will land in waves of the ocean and that'd be the end of it. But he was attached to his cousin, curse the weakness.

There had been disagreements between them, but nothing like between their fathers.

Her father never loved him much as he was his own father's heir. The leader of the rebellion after him. But instead of opposing Míriel, winning the power people would hand to him, a man, a renowned captain, one who understood them and met their expectations – instead of sinking her, he uplifted her (for the price of the Sceptre, yes, but her power was empty as it was: more people followed him, wanted him). He chose a way that would unit two fractions instead of starting a civil war, an armed conflict which he would have easily won!

And for all his magnanimity all he got in return was a red-eyed bride and Amandil looking at him across the hall with eyes filled with sadness and disappointment.

When the King noticed that glance, he approached the table where his counsellors sat.

"We all drink to wish luck to my marital life tonight. Yet I see not each of my men is pleased of my happiness.” Ar-Pharazôn stared at Amandil hard, his gaze challenging, daring the Prince of Andúnië to say what he thinks plainly.

Númenóreans became a strange nation. Each knew of other’s political views, yet each refused to act openly. King’s Men worked against the Faithful under the cover of the night, by false accusation of treachery, of spying for Gil-galad. Faithful didn't dare to visit Meneltarma anymore, didn't speak their thoughts on the streets in the presence of neighbours of which most were King’s Men. The Faithful did not oppose them actively, rarely spoke their mind while looking them in the eye. They plotted at night in houses of those who were known to be their supporters.

Everyone knew the centre of this shady activity was in the house of Amandil. Yet the lord sat within the King’s Council at the same time and no side dared to criticize him.

Amandil stared into his cup, into the depths of the wine like he could read in them like Ar-Pharazôn’s uncle, looking for an answer that would not come. He looked up in his former comrade’s eye finally. He wasn't afraid. He didn't stare in a condemning manner either. But rather as if he was hurt himself. His almost-pity infuriated Ar-Pharazôn, whose emotions have been strengthened by booze.

"I will not speak against you, my liege, but there are ancient laws that forbid union so close."

"As you noticed, they are ancient. These laws may be applicable once, but they were not designed for our times. When brother nearly fought against brother, shall cousins fight on or commit the lesser evil to secure the inner peace, to prevent the civil war maybe?"

"The reasons you've listed may be counted as noble. Perhaps more noble than usurping the power by force. Yet- forgive me, I shall speak no more."

"Speak!"

"Yet the Queen does not seem as satisfied with this union as you are.”

People at the table hold their breaths at Amandil's bold words. He dared to defy the man whose power was from some time unmatched in Númenor, who had thousands at his command, whose mere wish was fulfilled as dutifully as an order. Ar-Pharazôn’s favour could lift one high in social standing just as sure as his dislike may easily kill the careless.

The newly crowned King frowned in displeasure. For a moment he looked like he already decided the fate of the unruly and merely wondered now whether to tear him apart with horses or drag under the ship’s keel.

But the king mastered his vehement nature and smiled tightly, falsely.

“Of course. There is nothing surprising about that. She must gave away a bit of her power as I gained some. It is only natural she does not equal me in contentment now.”

In truth, contentment was the exact opposite of Míriel’s feelings at her wedding night.

She had made a fundamental mistake of being too kind to someone she didn't realize was a monster at heart. She wondered if she had encouraged him somehow. Perhaps she had ought to greet him less cordial that day he returned from campaign; perhaps she had endowed him with too much attention at the feast that day; perhaps she had looked too long into his eyes, had been too awed by his marvellous posture.

She also felt like she disappointed her father. Like she didn't fight hard enough. It was impossible to win against him that night, his strength exceeded hers, but maybe she shall hold onto the Sceptre more? Refuse him officially? Be strong enough to bear hate in her- in his men’s eyes gathered in the hall.

Now she still sat among them mortified, ashamed, unable to change her fate. She was guilty of consorting with her own blood and now everyone knew it. What was maybe equally bad, the night was approaching fast. Will he be as rough, as indelicate as he was that first time? Or would it be different for her because she no longer was a virgin?

So far everything went the same route as on that doomed evening. He drunk, he joked merry with his men. He looked at her with growing lust. Only she was not so welcome toward him tonight as she had been back then. She was not so happy to indulge him and maybe that’s why he left her side. She observed him discretely from afar and started to notice the cruel glint in his eyes. The gesture he made with his hand when vexed with his men mimicked that of her malicious uncle. For the first time she saw him as a man, not as someone sibling-like as she had always seen him before. And that perspective revealed an aspect of him she did not like. Or was he always so aggressive, only she was blinded by familiarity all her life?

Or maybe it was the life at sea that changed him so? Where he needed to be followed unquestionably and to win respect among the mariners it was obligatory to be in the first line always, no matter if it was a fight or a mere pillage?

His crewmen surrounded him now. Seamen were a company different than scholars Míriel was more used to. It wasn’t even a full day of Ar-Pharazôn’s official kingship and already different skills were valued at the court. Where earlier ruled wisdom, now blunt strength mattered more. Power and riches overcame the virtue of a noble character and a good heart.

Míriel’s cheeks burnt at the increasingly crude jokes. The seamen chiefly addressed her husband, wishing their liege a son. Yet as they drunk they became louder and now she could make out how someone pointed out the possibility of Ar-Pharazôn being a father already.

“Are you saying of a half-wildlings conceived in some desolate land? They’re not of Númenórean race! Blood too thin in them, they’re no better than their savage mothers, good maybe for servants if taught properly.”

“No such thing! I’m speaking of an heir of pure Númenórean blood.” The mariner lowered his voice, yet Míriel did not have to listen to him anymore to know from the giggles and looks thrown her in direction what exactly they were discussing.

Unable to stand it any longer, she rose and bid the nearest guests good night, then left the hall holding back tears that filled her eyes.

He stayed and drunk.

Her maids undressed her.

The sheets on the bed were of immaculate white colour. Míriel thought it absurd, it wasn’t like there would be her virginal blood to stain it. But then, the utter lack of practical meaning never stopped Númenóreans from following any of the sacred traditions.

She laid on the bed and waited and remembered Idril. Her son had saved so many, how much different history would be if Maeglin was the father?

* * *

“Give me a child,” whispered Ar-Pharazôn that night, when he finally came to her. “Our child will unify two branches of our family again. It would be completion of the union, the last validation of my right to the throne. We had one grandfather, why should the rule be refused to me if he favoured _my_ father…”

She did not scream that night, yet she still wept. It did not hurt so much this time and her tears were not that of a physical pain, but of a broken heart. In that moment she knew she would never be able to love him again. Not as her cousin – that affection was killed by his lust, and neither as her husband – that feeling will never grow aborted by his greed for power.

**Author's Note:**

> I feel so terrible for Míriel right now


End file.
